She should know this room.

She should know that just last week she polished the wood paneling with Old English and a clean cloth.

She should remember choosing the red and black décor.

But she didn’t – and they knew she didn’t. Look at them standing there staring at her waiting … waiting for her, their own mother, to prove that she really needed the doctor’s prescription; watching for signs of confusion, paranoia and fear. They want to see proof so they can swoop in here and run her life.

But she knows who she is: Violet Anderson. The policeman that stopped her was just talking too fast, and it’s so hot.

She just got a little foggy that’s all. It could happen to anybody.

Why can’t they stop staring? You’d think they’d never forgotten anything. Maybe if they’d quit moving her keys when they came over, she’d be able to find them. And maybe if they didn’t call every five minutes to make sure she was in the house, she’d remember to close the door and lock it up for the night.

None of that matters right now though because she still doesn”t know this room.

Foggy